Rivals
by Nuit Songeur
Summary: Rivals of ballet entertwined with rivals over a princess. She wasn't his, the prince's, but rather the writer's, even though he didn't really have substantial evidence to this claim. Rewrite of "The Duck Danced." Fakiru shipping with some Mytho/Tutu.


**A/N:** After a review I received not too long ago on "The Duck Danced," I decided to start from scratch and do a completely new rewrite of it. The reviewer- who claimed themselves as a harsh critic- confirmed some of my fears about my writing: too long, complexed and unnecessarily lengthy. To the reviewer (who I can't respond to because it's anonymous)- I would like to thank you sincerely for your honest review. It had me thinking about a lot of things and, what you've pointed out in your review I have worried about myself. So, thank you for the honesty, and thank you for taking the time to read my fanfic and typing out the lengthy response.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Princess Tutu.

**Warnings:** Spoilers. Fakir/Ahiru shipping with some hints of Mytho/Tutu. I use English names. And, as always, account for typos.

* * *

**Rivals  
**By: Nuit Songeur

* * *

The smoky haze was parting within the crystal ball and the viewer peered in for a closer look. What he saw astounded him: a duck that could so easily be mistaken for a girl. He watched as the strands of memories of this duck wove together in an almost jumbled mess. There were many images of ballet and certain people that studied it twisted within this mess. One was a particular white-haired male to whom the duck found herself to be inevitably devoted to. There were others, other aspiring ballet dancers in the class, but it was clear that he was the most cherished.

The duck herself seemed surprised once she noticed this draw, her devotion easily mistaken as obsession. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it wasn't. Nonetheless, the boy required the most attention from the girl. Or, wasn't it a duck?

It was a duck, indeed, and the viewer continued watching with equally devoted concentration as the duck awoke from her stupor by the pond and carefully observed the memories coming back to her, memories that the viewer saw himself. But, as both watched, there was another memory that occurred to the girl, or, duck, that is. This particular memory featured a magnificent ballerina whose grace was equally comparable to that of a beautiful swan. The ballerina danced, as any ballerina would, but her motions seemed to be inexplicably guided. Or rather, she might have been the one doing the guiding. It was difficult to say for there also another being in the scene. A man, a writer of sorts, scribbling away in a desperate fashion. Either she heeded his words or he her movements.

But, as the viewer watched, his gaze moved from the grace of the ballerina to the scowl of the writer and lingered there for quite some time. There was a furrow in his brow as he stared. And, suddenly, self-recognition came crashing down on the viewer as he realized he was viewing himself. And it was indeed _him_ that was being guided by _her. _But what was being guided, he hadn't a clue.

Before he had a chance to further analyze, the duck and he were shown another image, another one of the astounding ballerina. They watched, he through the crystal ball and she through the glassy surface of the pond. The ballerina continued dancing, as if that was the only thing she could do. And then, the viewer saw himself again. First, it was him clinging to the swan ballerina and then he was confronting a rival prima donna on horseback.

The rival had raven-black hair and her talent wasn't to be doubted. And though the viewing writer seemed to instinctively favor the swan ballerina, the raven one wasn't to be trifled with, almost an even match. Almost. Though, who had the upper hand was uncertain.

The duck continued watching, unperturbed by any original thought. But, he couldn't really expect the duck to think. She was, after all, just a duck. A simple bird. Still, the scowling writer sensed she was more.

But then, an epiphany dawned on him. He was a writer but he wasn't the only one. He didn't control the swan ballerina's movements and her movements didn't control his words. They _both _were controlled, as they were now, by someone else. An outside force.

The swan ballerina didn't dance to her own will. She was a puppet. A puppet that was only influenced by puppeteer strings. That was why dancing was the only thing she could do; it was the only thing she was _destined_ to do. The perplexed writer found himself scoffing; he'd never been one for preordained fate. He always decided that _he_ was in control of his life and no one else.

The befuddled viewer went back to viewing, setting aside his train of thought to do so. And what he soon discovered was that there was another girl in the picture, an inexperienced, awkward, young girl who seemed to have never run into the meaning of 'grace' her entire life. She was klutzy, uncoordinated, never practiced. But yet still, the amazed viewer found it intriguing that, through the memories of the duck, he saw that he had chosen _her_ as dance partner. Not the raven ballerina, not the swan ballerina. The awkward, duck girl.

Duck girl? Was the duck a girl? Or was the girl a duck? _The_ duck, perhaps…

Nevertheless, whomever he had chosen, that life was gone now, empty. Over. Finished. Completed. As suggested by the crystal ball that showed an empty and desolate stage. Perhaps it had once held magnificent wonders to behold but now, the show was over.

The duck sat on her heels, unhappy with what was shown her, perturbed as if she still didn't remember. Like so, the forgetful writer didn't remember either. Neither remembered. Neither remembered when the swan ballerina had called out to him and the writer, upon calling her name, reached out to her and rescued her from a timeless alcove. Or when he had galloped away to face a restless ghost knight in order to save the awkward duck girl. Or, when the swan ballerina had interfered and faced the ghost knight herself, leaving nothing but an injured form in her wake.

The writer nor the duck remembered dancing alongside with the raven ballerina or the white hair male whom she'd often claimed as her partner. No one remembered. They weren't there anymore and the cherished memories were forgotten over a period of neglected time.

But the duck was remembering. Walking through the familiar town, she watched as past events came rushing back to her, as memories became memorable. And she remembered that once, she had not only been a duck but a girl. A clumsy girl dutifully studying ballet. But, even more so, she was someone else too. She had been able to transform into an exceptional ballerina with talents only comparable to the graceful swan.

_She_ was the swan princess.

And, as the swan princess, the white haired prince was her prince, her partner to dance with. She knew so. Her memories showed her so. She was _his_ partner and he was hers, only hers. He had been promised to her. She served the prince, no one else. Not herself, not the writer, not another writer. She fought and sacrificed for the prince. _Her_ prince.

"No!" cried out the raven-haired writer. The duck's resolution upset him, left him shaking. His hands trembled violently as he whispered echoes of his previous exclamation. "No… no…" The swan princess, the girl, the duck… they were _his_, not some fictional prince's.

Though, the young story-weaver had no idea as to why he was entitled to such a claim. He didn't remember this life, his life with the swan princess or the girl. But he knew, undoubtedly, that she- for the princess and the girl were one in the same- was _his._

As if she had heard her observer's cry, the duck started, her blue eyes widening with unshed tears. More memories passed before her and she saw the raven-haired story-weaver in her old life, always there for her. He danced with her when the prince would not. He danced with her as the _girl_, not just a princess. The prince only needed a princess, not some silly girl. And though she would act the part of the princess sometimes, she was not whom the prince had chosen. The prince had chosen the raven princess. And what of her, the awkward girl, doomed forever as the small bird? She had done everything for him, sacrificed everything for _him_. But it was not _him_ that danced with her. It was not _him _that promised to stay beside her forever.

She saw herself, as the awkward girl- the one whom she really was- with the raven-haired youth. It was _he_ who danced with her, promised to be with her forever, even as a bird.

They had worked together, swan princess and young writer, to save the heartless prince, to ensure his happiness because they both loved the prince for his unconditional kindness.

They both watched as the swan princess's duty was fulfilled, as both of their goals were met, when the penultimate moment came and the prince's heart was restored completely, leaving the duty of the swan princess requited and leaving the swan princess herself to leave her character from the story and return as how she really was: just a duck.

The viewer, who was also a writer, continued watching the crystal ball through which he gazed. Tears flowed, seemingly endless, down his face as he watched the duck, his duck, dance once more, rejoicing who she was and all that she had done.

"Duck…" he whispered before falling to unconsciousness.

* * *

I happen to think that this version is a lot better than the original. More Fakir happenings and whatnot. Tell me what you think! Please, review!

**_-NuitSongeur_**


End file.
